Clarice Starling sat on her couch. Uniformed police officers and FBI agents in suits thronged the duplex. It was not every day that someone dropped off a flaming Tattler reporter on the porch of an FBI agent. She could hear the buzz of metallic voices on police radios. The squeak and rattle of a gurney as the ambulance crew brought it to the unfortunate man on her porch. Amazingly, he was still alive.
Jack Crawford stood in the living room of her duplex, watching her carefully. She found herself feeling like a little girl who had somehow displeased her daddy. She swallowed nervously.
"Starling," Crawford said calmly. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm OK, sir," she said. "I guess. I mean, it's not every day something like this happens to me." She shook her head slowly.
Crawford sat down on the chair across from her. His tone was calm and paternal.
"All these guys have been treating you like a witness," he said. "You know your stuff. What does this tell you? Who do you think did this?"
Clarice adopted a slightly helpless expression and shrugged. "I…I don't know," she admitted. "I have no idea, really. I'm not working anything that high profile. I haven't been in the press. Even the murder itself is more like that guy with Graham and the Red Dragon killer." She snapped her fingers. "I'm blanking on his name."
"Lounds," Crawford supplied. His eyes shifted at the memory. Clarice hadn't seen it. He had. He wished he hadn't.
"Except there's some stuff that's different," Clarice continued. "The severed hand and the business card. That's odd."
Hand. That made her think of the second murder scene. But it was hard to quantify. Having flaming reporters dropped on your porch by parties unknown would do that to you. She found it hard to think.
She glanced over to see Josh Graham standing in her doorway. He looked a bit shy and shamefaced. He came up to her calmly and stared at her and Crawford as if cowed by them.
"Wow," he said. "I heard about it on the news. I had something I thought of later. Didn't realize it until now. I guess it's not a good time."
Clarice sighed. "It's OK, Josh," she said. "Don't worry about it. I'm OK. What did you have?"
He slid a photograph out from under his jacket. "This," he said. "Baltimore PD took a picture of it at the scene." He handed the picture to Clarice. It was a picture of a bloody handprint on the table at the second murder scene. Clarice frowned. As soon as she saw it, he vocalized it.
"A handprint," he explained. "With six fingers, look at it. No prints to be seen. Probably the killer wore gloves. But that was staged, Starling. Our killer meant for us to find it."
A minor rill of fear ran through Clarice's stomach. A killer with six fingers on his left hand? There was only one current serial killer she knew like that.
"Dr. Lecter," she whispered. "No, wait. Dr. Lecter's extra finger was removed. We know that from the X ray we got." Her head tilted. "Could this be faked?"
Josh shrugged.
"Call Baltimore PD and tell them to get that, if they haven't already," Clarice directed. "Have them saw it out if they have to. If they've got it, have them send it to the FBI labs."
Crawford grinned. "Nice work," he said. "Still, if we're looking for a six-fingered killer that gives us something big to work with. We can comb down the list easy.
Clarice sighed. "It might be faked," she repeated. "With a severed finger or something."
Josh's face tightened with distaste. Even the idea that Hannibal Lecter might be trooping around was frightening for him. He'd been very young when his father had almost met his end at Dr. Lecter's hands. The FBI agent blinked his eyes and remembered being very small, his hand held in his mother's, solemnly watching his father in the bed. All the tubes running out of him. How pained his smile had been, and how weak his grasp when he held his son's small hand. It's OK, sport…Daddy was arresting a bad man and the bad man hurt Daddy…but it'll all be okay.
It hadn't ever been okay. He thought of being in Francis Dolarhyde's grasp, a shard of glass pressing his throat. The fat drop of blood growing at its tip. His father, again: Filthy little beast! Worthless! Later, his father had taken him aside and assured him that he had only said it to make the bad man stop. Josh had believed him, and he didn't hold anything against his father for that. Now, an agent himself, he understood exactly what his father had done.
And now, he thought, he knew exactly why his father always turned slightly pale whenever Hannibal Lecter's picture appeared in the paper.
Another agent muscled through the crowd up to where they stood.
"The guy on your porch has been tentatively ID'ed," he said. "They had to use his teeth to do it. Fingerprints are burned off, and it wasn't like he had any ID. But we're pretty sure he's James Winfield of the Tattler."
Clarice glanced up. She'd just seen him today. Sometime between then and now, someone had arrowed in on him and taken him out. That was frightening. For a moment, she glanced out her window. Was a killer watching her now?
She got up and stretched.
"Gentlemen, I'm gonna change," she said. "Let's go to the hospital and see if we can find anything. Maybe Mr. Winfield can tell us something about who did this to him."
…
Alice Pierpont was quite pleased with herself. By now, she thought, Starling ought to be scared. She didn't know who Alice was, but she knew a killer had her in her sights. She knew that she was being watched. Next would come a private contact. Over the phone, Alice thought, that would work best. She would have liked very much to get an electronic voice changer to make her voice sound like Dr. Lecter's, but she didn't own one and didn't know if one would do that, anyway.
She was not expecting the knock at the door when it came. She lived alone, and had since she'd graduated from college a few months ago. When she'd been formally disowned from the family.
A pounding came at her door. Alice's eyes narrowed. She had her twin Tanto knives in a bag by the hallway, and she could get to them quickly. She didn't own a gun. Guns were for cheaters. It was vastly more fun to handle things herself.
It occurred to her that it might be the police. She doubted that it was. The Mustang was the only vehicle she had in her own name. The van she'd used to ferry Winfield hither and yon was registered in the name of a shell corporation she had set up. Even so, just in case, she'd gone to the airport and switched plates with a car there while she did the job. She'd been careful in dropping off Winfield at Starling's place. Learning to create an improvised fuse was not terribly difficult, even these days. By the time old Jimmy had burst into flames, she'd run halfway up the street and gotten in the van. She'd made it back to the airport and switched plates back. The van itself she parked near the airport in a parking lot there.
The man standing on her doorstep was not the police, though. She glanced out the peephole at him and raised an eyebrow in surprise. The bolts on the door snapped shut and she opened the door, admitting him.
He was older, perhaps fifty or so. His hair was gray, but his face was not afflicted with too many wrinkles. His skin was bronzed even in this cold weather; the results of a tanning booth. He smiled at her with capped teeth and entered the house.
"Hello, Alice," he said calmly.
Alice's face was calm and distant. "Mr. Morgan," she said dispassionately.
He seemed a bit wounded. "You could call me Dad, you know."
Alice remained distant. "I suppose I could," she said frostily. "But after all, as Mother was ever so wont to remind me, you're not my father."
Edgar Morgan II sighed. He was a wealthy man, accustomed to getting what he wanted. He had not been born wealthy, but had earned his way to the head of a major corporation through hard work. His socialite trophy wife had come with a surprising little extra, namely the young stepdaughter who eyed him so coldly now.
"No," he admitted. "I'm not. But I did pay your way through boarding school and I did send you to college. So how about cutting me a little slack, Alice? I need to talk to you."
"I let you in," Alice pointed out. "Here. You may hang your coat on the hook, there. Come in the kitchen; I have some coffee ready."
She walked into the kitchen briskly, leaving him to catch up. After a moment, he did. His stride matched her own. Once in the kitchen, she poured two cups of coffee and handed one to him. She sat down at her kitchen table and wordlessly eyed him.
Edgar Morgan sat down at the table and sipped the coffee. His eyes closed in pleasure.
"It's good to see you, Alice," he said. "It's been a while."
"Of course it has," Alice said distantly. "As you may recall, when I graduated college, Mother told me that it was finally time to get rid of me. If I left quietly, without talking to the press, I'd be adequately compensated. If not, she'd see me in prison or a mental institution, but I would be going either way. I elected to take the money; I'm no fool. Dear Mother did slap me in Juvie for six months once, after all. So I took your money, of course. Being free of the hateful bitch was worth it."
Morgan sighed. "Alice…your mother is having some issues. Don't talk about her like that."
"Why not?" Alice asked, and her eyes did not waver off her stepfather's. "She is a hateful bitch. And a sociopath. She cares only about herself and always has. You've merely been a means of getting the respect and adulation she believes to be her due."
"Alice," Morgan said helplessly.
"And she's fucking the pool man," Alice went on blithely, as if he had not said anything. "But then again, you've been sleeping with your secretaries since I was six, so I guess that evens out."
Morgan slammed his hand on the table. "Alice, I have been fair to you and I didn't come here to be abused by you."
"Then why did you come?" Alice asked, meeting his steel with her own. "Like it or not, this is my house, and I am now independently wealthy. Whether or not the money was yours is no longer relevant. You and Mother gave it to me to buy my silence. You got that. You have no more claims on me than from anyone else you do business with. And I haven't said anything that isn't the truth."
Edgar Morgan sighed. "Well, can't we at least be friendly with each other? Why does it have to always be this way?"
Alice shrugged. "Typically," she said, "when one is told 'You will get out of our house by the end of the week. If you go quietly we'll give you money; otherwise we'll have you arrested or committed', one no longer feels terribly friendly towards those that say that. Especially when they claim to be one's family."
Morgan displayed his palms. "Okay. Fine. Your mom was wrong to do that. She's…she's got issues. You still could be nice."
"I could," Alice agreed. "But I won't."
"So, what then?" Morgan asked. "I can't even talk to you? I wasn't ever as cruel to you as your mom was."
"No," Alice agreed, "you were busy at work. And having affairs with your leggy blonde secretaries."
"Could you stop with the taunts?" Morgan said. "I'm sorry you were hurt. Your mother was wrong. Is that what you want? You want me to admit it? Fine. What your mother did was hateful and wrong. On her behalf, I apologize." He wasn't pleading, but it was close. Edgar Morgan prided himself on being the consummate dealmaker. He'd dealt with people who were angry before. Sometimes all you had to do was duck your head and take a few shots. Most people would quit it once you'd showed the back of your neck enough. Then you could get down to business.
"Alice, your mom has some problems, and she resents you, and we're…we're working on it. She's seeing a therapist."
"Antisocial personality disorder doesn't respond to therapy," Alice said coldly. "Their prognosis is extremely poor. You should read about it. I have. But all right, I can see you can't admit you married a sociopath. What do you want, Mr. Morgan?"
Morgan sipped the coffee again.
"I have a problem, Alice, and I think you might be able to help me with it."
Alice tilted her head and watched him. "What sort of problem?" she asked.
"A family problem."
Alice let out a sardonic chuckle. "I guess I'm puzzled why you think the outcast of the family would want to help with a family problem."
Edgar Morgan displayed open palms to his stepdaughter, signaling his surrender.
"Can I finish?" he asked. "Please?"
Alice crossed her arms at him, but said nothing.
"It's Eddie," he said.
"Eddie." Alice spoke the name with infinite coldness, as if she and Edgar Morgan III had not been conceived in the same womb.
"Yes."
Alice chuckled. "What's he done now?"
Morgan let out breath he'd been holding in.
"The story is…," he began. "There's this girl, you see, and she's claiming that…," he trailed off.
"Eddie raped a girl, did he?"
"No!" Edgar Morgan held up his hands. "No, no. She's saying he did. Eddie says it was consensual."
Alice shrugged. "So then there must be proof," she said. "You're a savvy man; you wouldn't even be here if you couldn't squash it yourself. These days, DNA tests will prove his innocence…or his guilt. You wouldn't be slumming with me if you didn't have a losing hand. So tell me true, Mr. Morgan. Eddie raped a girl and she went to the police, and they've got his DNA, don't they? And for some reason you're not able to protect him as you have in the past. Either you can't keep it out of the press, or when she presented at the ER the evidence was obvious that it wasn't consensual. Was it bruises? Or was it GHB?"
Edgar Morgan gripped the cup and tensed. There were two things about his stepdaughter he had learned when she was a young girl: she was perceptive and absolutely merciless. He knew Jane had been completely psycho when it came to her daughter. And Eddie…well, Alice wasn't terribly sympathetic to her younger brother.
His silence was all the answer she needed. Edgar Morgan II sat in his stepdaughter's kitchen, completely unaware that he was directly over the cage in which she had confined James Winfield before killing him. Alice emitted cold, mocking laughter.
"I don't know what you expect from me," she said. "After all, Eddie tried to sneak into my bed when he was ten. That's what you slammed me in juvenile hall for."
"You broke his arm in two places," Edgar Morgan offered.
"Did you ever wonder what he was doing in my bed?" Alice asked, and her eyes burned with anger.
"I…well…you attacked him."
"Self-defense," Alice said promptly. "But never mind, Mr. Morgan. Don't count on warm family relations to get you through this. Tell me what you want, and I'll tell you if I'll do it or not and if so, what price I will demand."
Morgan sighed.
"Alice, I need…I need an alibi witness for Eddie. Someone who can help him out of this. If you say that you were out with them, maybe. Say that she took the drugs of her own free will. We need to cast a little doubt."
Alice Pierpont stared at her stepfather as if he was some strange species of dung beetle.
"Alice, he's only eighteen. He's just a kid. Even if I can keep him out of prison, he… he'll have to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. The DA…the DA isn't willing to deal."
Alice shook her head resolutely. "No," she said.
Edgar Morgan stopped. "No?" he asked guardedly.
"No, I'm not willing to help you," she said calmly. "I've settled into a quiet life and I rather like it. Eddie will have to get himself out of this mess himself. And why in God's name would you want me? Surely you can buy any one of a hundred floozies who'd be willing to say whatever you wanted for much less money than I would want."
"I need someone with credibility," he said. "Someone a jury will believe. You're his big sister, you know, people would believe that you all went out, had some fun, and things got carried away. But not rape."
Alice reached out and took his coffee mug. She poured the coffee down the sink. It swirled dark for a moment and then vanished into the depths.
"The answer is no, Mr. Morgan. Your overflowing wallet may yet buy Eddie another free pass, but not by my hands. I'll escort you to the door now."
Morgan sighed. "Alice, he's your brother."
"An accident of biology," Alice answered coldly. "You may lie for him. For now, I'd appreciate it if you left."
"Alice," Morgan said, "look. I know, you did six months in juvenile hall when you were younger…and I'm sorry. And it was wrong. We should have dealt with Eddie then, but your mother…," he trailed off. "And Eddie isn't gonna get off scot-free. He'll be punished."
"If he goes to prison, I'm sure he will," Alice said. "I don't mean to be rude, but you don't respond to subtlety, Mr. Morgan. Leave."
Edgar Morgan got up. "I'm sorry you're not willing to listen to reason," he said. "It's a shame, Alice. You're an independently wealthy woman because of us. You'll never have to work a day in your life…because of us. I'd hoped you might have shown some loyalty."
"Expect no loyalty from those you show none to," Alice said.
"And no talking to the press about this," Morgan said.
"You never said any such thing," Alice pointed out.
"Don't you dare," Morgan said, his face beginning to redden.
"Don't threaten me, Mr. Morgan," Alice said.
"I'm not," he said. "Just work with me here, would you?"
When the door closed behind him, Alice sat back down with her own coffee and began to think. The rich hazelnut flavor was comforting. This was a new turn. She wasn't surprised, though. Her mother and stepfather had constantly saved Eddie from himself. He never learned consequences. It wasn't the first time, but it was the first time they were unable to protect him. That was odd.
A delicious idea occurred to her. She could use this for some fun, as well. . It would take some work, sure. She'd have to do her own detective work into Eddie's past. But it would give her another thread to play. And between the two threads, she would be able to ensnare Clarice Starling.